AHMM, June 2012

by Dell Magazine Authors

“Let's think about this,” Paul cut in. “So far, I've been telling him there's nothing going on between Tony and you, that it's all sit-ups and jumping jacks and things like that. We're gonna have to account for the change—we're gonna have to work out a narrative. I should take pictures. And you shouldn't be wearing a leotard when I take them, and your hair shouldn't look so nice.”

  Thea blushed. “What should I do?”

  He pursed his lips. “Come to the club tomorrow. Wear sweat pants, pull your hair back, don't wear makeup. Tony won't care—it's not the leotard that turns him on. Lead him on a little. When he makes his move, smack him in the face, run out of the room, and go home. When you see Edward, tell him you're switching to another club, but don't say why. Act sorta upset, but just say you don't like this club anymore.”

  “But you said you want to take pictures,” Thea objected. “Tony and I always work out in a private room, with the door closed. How can you—oh.”

  “Yeah, I've got a camera set up. A bug too. How do you think I knew just when to barge in? Now, leading Tony on, acting upset for Edward—can you pull that off?”

  Thea smiled slightly. “I had the lead in my high-school play, junior year. That's when I decided to drop out and head for Hollywood. I got as far west as Cleveland.”

  “Then you can pull it off.” Paul grinned. “Afterwards, I'll call Edward, show him the picture of you smacking Tony, describe how shocked you were. Maybe he'll report Tony to the club, but I bet he'll let it go—he won't want to come that close to scandal. Well, that should work.” He stood up. “See you around, Thea.”

  “But I won't see you,” she said, and felt a little sad. Paul could be crude, and he had strange ideas about Edward. But really, he'd been very nice.

  The plan worked as Paul had predicted. She enjoyed smacking Tony. At dinner that night, Edward got exasperated when she wouldn't explain why she'd decided to switch clubs. When he came home the next night, though, he gave her emerald earrings. Paul must have done a good job when he made his report, she thought, smiling at herself in the mirror, admiring the way the emeralds complemented the traces of hazel in her eyes. Her matron-of-honor dress was pale green; she could wear the earrings to her sister's wedding, as fresh proof of how much her husband loved her.

  She went about her business—shopping, working out at her new club, sometimes having lunch with wives of Edward's friends. It felt odd, knowing Paul Addison was watching her. But it didn't feel bad. It felt almost comforting. Ever since she'd married Edward, she'd often felt lonely. She saw lots of people, but they were all people she knew through Edward. She couldn't really talk to any of them. Paul felt like a friendlier presence, even though she never saw him. My guardian angel, she thought once, and felt embarrassed that it had occurred to her; but from time to time, she found herself thinking it again.

  She hoped things would get better with Edward, now that she'd proved herself with Tony—or, at least, seemed to prove herself. He didn't seem any warmer, though, and he still cut her off whenever she mentioned her sister's wedding. The real test, she decided, would be the retirement dinner for Marty Thompson, a senior partner at Edward's firm. Everyone from the firm was coming, and there would be new people, too, Marty's out-of-town relatives. There would be introductions. If Edward doesn't make the joke, Thea thought, that means things are better.

  She dressed carefully—the new earrings, of course, and an off-the-shoulder soft black dress with a demurely flaring skirt. She looked just the way Edward liked her to look—sophisticated, sexy in an understated way, more glamorous than the other wives but not showy. When she came downstairs, Edward lifted his eyebrows and said she looked nice. Maybe this would be a good night.

  At the country club, Marty stood near the door of the banquet room, his chunky old wife standing next to him, wearing some drab powder-blue thing. His out-of-town relatives clustered nearby, along with half a dozen partners and associates from the firm; they all had glasses in their hands. Marty seemed to be handling the introductions himself. So this wouldn't be a test for Edward after all. Thea felt slightly disappointed, slightly relieved.

  Marty waved broadly when he spotted them. “Folks,” he said, “this lovely young woman is Thea Hanover. And this reasonably well-preserved specimen is Edward Hanover.” Marty paused for three seconds. “Edward is Thea's first husband.”

  All the partners and associates laughed—loudly, without reservation. The out-of-town relatives laughed, too, though some looked confused, not sure of why they were laughing. Edward's laugh was the loudest and lasted the longest. Then he shrugged, lifting both hands to shoulder height and spreading his fingers. “What can I say? I can't deny it—I'm a realist. Marty, you son of a gun.”

  Willing herself to smile, Thea didn't let her shoulders stiffen too much. They all know the joke, she thought. Every single person in this firm knows the joke. Every single person knows it's all right to laugh at me.

  Finally, someone else arrived, and attention shifted. She detached herself from Edward and found the bar. White wine, she thought. I should ask for white wine, take one sip, and then just hold the glass in my hand until dinner starts.

  She asked for a double Bourbon, straight up, and walked to the window overlooking the river. She stared out at nothing and drained her drink. I hate him, she thought. He's a horrible person. I wish he were dead. I hate him.

  Someone touched her arm, and she turned to see Scott Crawford. “I was thinking about you the other day,” he said. “Remember La'Sheka, that tiny girl who could barely hoist her cello onto the stage? She played a solo at the spring concert—it went very well. Afterwards, she came over to me and said, ‘I wish Miss Thea had been here. Miss Thea always liked my music.’ “

  Coming on such a night, the unexpected sweetness of it made her want to cry. But the last three years had taught her self-control. She smiled. “What a nice thing for her to say. I hope the children don't think I lost interest in them.”

  “No, I'm sure they don't think that.” He drank some Scotch and looked at her. “How have you been, Thea? How are things going?”

  “Oh, fine.” She wished she had some new accomplishment to tell him about, some new interest to describe. But she couldn't talk to him about shopping or working out or going to lunch, and she hadn't been doing anything else. She never did anything else. “My sister's getting married in three weeks, in Buffalo; I've been very busy getting ready for that. How about you? Are you handling any big cases?”

  He half laughed. “Nothing very big, nothing very interesting. Music Matters, though—that's thriving. We're thinking of starting two new groups, a string quartet and an a cappella choir. First, though, my mother has to raise money to pay the teachers. Well, if anybody can do it, she can.”

  She was about to reply when Edward walked over, smiling placidly. “I see you two have found each other. How nice. How's that foundation doing, Scott?”

  Did Scott flinch? Probably not—probably, Thea had imagined it. “Very well. I was just telling Thea we're thinking of expanding, if we can find the money.”

  Tilting his head back, Edward laughed briefly. “That sounds like an appeal for a check. Happy to oblige. And if you're expanding, maybe you can use Thea on Saturdays again. How about it, Thea? Feel like doing something useful?”

  “No.” Was it the Bourbon giving her courage, or the humiliation and anger and hatred? “There wasn't enough for me to do on Saturdays. It was boring. I could go on Thursdays. There's more for me to do.”

  Edward frowned. “I told you, I don't want you to go to that neighborhood in the afternoons. And on Thursdays, Scott won't be there to protect you.”

  “It's perfectly safe.” She turned her back on him. “Scott, please tell Sharon I'll volunteer on Thursdays again. I'll start this week.”

  Clearly, Edward didn't like it. But he wouldn't stoop to arguing with her. During the following days, they barely spoke to each other. At breakfast, at dinner, they sat at the table and said nothing beyond routine inquiries
and terse responses. As she ate, the sentences that had first come to her as she stood by the window kept going through her mind: I hate him. He's a horrible person. I wish he were dead. I hate him. The words became a mantra; it felt comforting to hear herself think them. Could Edward sense that something had changed, that she hated him now? Thea hardly cared.

  On Thursday, she went to the community center, helped Sharon in the office, and purposely stayed later than usual, stayed until well after it had started to turn dark. She'd had to park two blocks away from the center, and she felt nervous as she walked those two blocks, feeling the sharp chill in the air, noticing how few people were left on the street, how unsavory those few looked.

  And then a man wearing a hooded jacket stepped out of an alley and grabbed her, pulling her into the alley, shoving her hard against the brick wall of a crumbling building. She started to scream, but he struck her in the face, shocking her into silence, and tore her purse from her hand. When she tried to pull away, he hit her again and ripped her coat open, his hand on her throat now, reaching for the braided gold necklace Edward gave her for Christmas. He'll kill me, she thought. After he takes the necklace, he'll kill me.

  But someone pulled the man away from her, punching him in the face and the stomach. The man in the hooded jacket punched too. The other man punched again, snatched her purse back, and let it fall to the pavement. The man in the hooded jacket ran away, and the other man ran after him.

  Thea sank down sobbing, too terrified and exhausted to think about what had happened, clutching her purse to her chest, putting her hand to her throat to feel that the necklace was still there. The other man ran back, slightly out of breath, and crouched next to her, putting his hands on her shoulders. It was Paul Addison, the private detective.

  “The bastard got away,” he said. “Are you all right, Thea? Did he hurt you?”

  She stared at him blankly. My guardian angel, she thought; this time, the phrase didn't embarrass her. “Thank God he didn't get my purse,” she said, “or my necklace. Edward would've been so mad.”

  Paul chuckled. “That's one hell of a thing to be thinking about at a time like this. Can you stand up? Here, let me look at you. You sure you're okay?”

  He pulled her coat together and rebuttoned it, smoothed her hair back from her face. She looked at him gratefully. “I'm fine. Thank you, Paul. I'll never be able to thank you enough. And can you please not tell Edward? He'll say that it proves he was right about coming here in the afternoon, that I—”

  “Forget it.” He gave her a quick, warm smile. “Edward will never know. But you should pull yourself together before you go home. How about a drink? I know a decent place, not far from here.”

  “That sounds wonderful.” He walked her to her car and gave her directions, and five minutes later she joined him in the bar—just one room, long and narrow and dimly lit, warm with the smells of onion rings and barbecue sauce. She felt instantly at home. Paul sat at a back table; he'd already ordered a double Bourbon for her, a gin and tonic for himself. She sat down across from him, smiling shakily.

  “How did you know I like Bourbon?” she asked.

  “Oh, I know lots of things about you.” He took a sip of his drink. “So, how have you been, Thea? How are things going?”

  The same questions Scott Crawford had asked her. But this time, she felt she could tell the truth. “Things are worse. After you showed Edward the pictures of me and Tony, he gave me emerald earrings, really nice ones, and I thought that was a good sign. But then, at this party, he laughed at me—everyone laughed at me, like I'm some big joke. And he still doesn't trust me, and he barely talks to me.”

  Paul nodded slowly. “Why did you marry him? You didn't love him, did you?”

  “I thought I might.” She took a long drink. It felt wonderful to be this honest with someone. “I liked him, anyhow. Before we were married, we had some good times. He was funny—not crude, like so many guys, but witty, you know?” She paused and took another sip. “And I was tired—tired of living in crummy apartments and never being able to buy nice things, tired of working so hard day after day and still being broke before the end of the month. And I was tired of being with men who said they loved me and wanted to marry me but just sponged off me and then dumped me without paying me back. Edward seemed different—he was different. I wasn't crazy about him. But all the men I'd been crazy about turned out to be such losers. I thought Edward and I could just be nice to each other, and it would be all right.”

  “But it hasn't been all right.” He met her gaze directly. “You could leave him. Forget the prenup, forget the money. Just leave him, and find someone who can appreciate you.”

  Was Paul talking about himself? Was he asking her to leave Edward and come to him? For thirty seconds, she let herself think about it; it felt exciting. She liked Paul but didn't know if she could love him, and she couldn't see giving everything else up, not for a man who might turn out to be no different from the others. She shook her head. “I don't think that'd be smart.”

  “Probably not,” he agreed. “Well, I'm glad I could be there for you today.”

  “Yes, thank you for that,” she said. “If you hadn't been—oh, my God. So you were waiting outside the center, the whole time I was there?”

  “No, most of the time I was inside. It gets pretty cold waiting in my car. Besides, I had to keep an eye on you, so I could tell Edward you weren't doing anything nasty.”

  That made her wince. “But how did you get inside? After the children arrive, Sharon locks the doors.”

  He shrugged. “Any private detective worth his salt can get past pretty much any lock. And the center doesn't have a security system—not enough worth stealing, I guess. Security systems are tough. The one at your house, for example—I got a look at that one time when Edward had me come over to make a report, and it's top of the line. I couldn't get past that. I'd have to know the keypad code.”

  Why had he mentioned that? Suddenly, she didn't feel so comfortable with Paul anymore. She finished her drink. “I'd better get home. Thank you, Paul.”

  “No problem. Say, you're going shopping tomorrow, right? Still looking for the perfect wedding gift for your sister? What do you say we have lunch? “

  “That sounds nice,” she said, “But what if someone's watching?”

  “Hey, I'm the one who's watching. And I'm not telling Edward a thing. So, lunch tomorrow?”

  He'd saved her purse, maybe so much more than her purse. How could she say no? She said yes, and the next day she said yes again, and then they were meeting every day for lunch or drinks. He urged her to talk about Edward, and she told stories about him, laughing at him, not feeling guilty when Paul joined in. “He's so vain about his looks,” she said. “And really, for someone his age, he does look good. He wants to stay in shape, but he won't go to a club—I think he doesn't want to compare himself to younger men, more muscular men. So he's got all this equipment in the basement, and he works out just about every night, sometimes until after midnight.”

  Paul chewed on his Reuben. “What sorts of equipment?”

  “Oh, every kind. A treadmill, free weights, a stationary bike—”

  “Free weights? Those can be dangerous.”

  “Well, he doesn't use them unless his personal trainer's there to spot for him. His name is Andre. He has the funniest accent; I don't know if it's French, or what.”

  She told two amusing stories about Andre, but Paul didn't seem especially interested. “Edward seems sort of paranoid,” he said, more or less out of nowhere.

  “I guess,” she said, confused. “He must be, if he's so worried about me cheating on him.”

  “Yeah, there's that. And that fancy security system he has. Is that because he has all those paintings?”

  “He does have a lot,” she said. “He likes to show them off when people come over.”

  “I bet,” Paul said. “So, he's vain. I bet he chose his birthdate for the keypad code, didn't he?”

>   He shouldn't ask that, she thought. I shouldn't answer. But she couldn't help laughing. “Even worse. I suggested using our wedding date—we'd just been married, and I thought it'd be romantic. But it had to be all about him.” Stop talking about this, she told herself, though she had an inexplicable urge to tell him the rest. “We can't meet for lunch tomorrow. I'm leaving for Buffalo.”

  “I know,” he said. “I'm going, too—Edward wants me to make sure you don't screw any old high-school sweethearts.”

  Even at my sister's wedding, she thought angrily. He doesn't trust me to be decent, not even there. I hate him. He's a horrible person. I wish he were dead. I hate him. “That bastard,” she said.

  “That sums it up,” Paul agreed. “But I won't embarrass you—you'll never even know I'm there.” He reached across the table, resting his hand on hers. It was the first time he'd touched her since he put his hands on her shoulders after saving her from the man in the hooded jacket. “Do you ever think about it, Thea? Do you wonder what it would be like if you came back from Buffalo and Edward just wasn't there? Do you wonder how it would feel if you had that whole house to yourself, if you were free?”

  For just a few seconds, she let herself think about it. Then she shook her head. “That isn't going to happen.”

  “Of course not,” Paul agreed. “So, you said the keypad code had to be all about him. His social security number? The date he graduated from law school? I bet it's really funny. Come on, Thea. I could use a laugh.”

  Paul's hand was still warm on hers. To be free, she thought. No more tests, no more cold silences, no more jokes. “The date he made senior partner.” She heard herself say the words and felt cold clear through. She pulled her hand away. “I have to go,” she said, and left. I didn't tell him the numbers, she thought. He doesn't know when Edward made senior partner. And we were just joking around.

  That night, she asked Edward, again, if he'd come to Buffalo—not that she'd enjoy having him with her, just that it would feel good to go to her sister's wedding with an escort. But Edward wouldn't give her that small pleasure. She'd have to go as a woman whose husband didn't care enough about her to take her to her sister's wedding. In the morning, she packed carefully—her most expensive dresses, her nicest shoes, the emerald earrings and her other best jewelry in a cloth case she could carry in her purse. Edward was too busy to drive her to the airport, so she took a cab. And Paul will be there, she thought. It would be almost like having an escort—an escort no one could see, but an escort all the same.